“Then best you not let Mrs. Spenser there take her a swallow. You bet,” said a voice from the doorway. All turned to me as I burned from embarrassment and confusion that any chucklehead would speak ill of me. I looked to see who had made himself so bold, and caught the rheumy eye of Ben Bondurant! He is the only man I could forgive for such impertinence, and when I saw his dear misshapen face, all fear for our safety fled, as I knew we were in good hands.
“I crossed with Mrs. Spenser, and she’s game,” he explained to the others, without giving the particulars. When we had a few minutes to ourselves, he told me he’d found the gold fields a humbug and was cured of “quartz on the brain.” He had repaired to Mingo to look about, with the hope of finding a suitable homestead.
I had put the savages out of my mind while attending the birth of the babe, but when I went outside to speak with Mr. Bondurant, worry returned. I had not expected Luke to be away so long. Mr. Bondurant and others sought to calm me as the time passed, with no sign of Husband. I put up a brave front and did not let my emotions show, because I knew Luke would not like to hear that I had dissolved into womanly tears, but, O, never have I been so frightened, even when under Indian attack on the Overland Trail. I thought if something had happened to Luke, I should not want to live, either.
At last, when night had nearly fallen, a wagon appeared in the distance, someone declaring it belonged to the German couple, the Himmels. Until then, none had remembered them, for they are newer than even I am to this country and keep to themselves. As the wagon came closer, my heart leapt into my throat because I recognized Traveler tied behind. Looking closer, I saw that Luke held the reins.
There was great commotion when he drew up, the men holding the horses and helping Mrs. Himmel from the wagon. The woman tore at her face and moaned in her guttural language, which none could understand, and fearing something untoward had befallen her husband, I directed my attention to the wagon bed, as did others.
One of the men removed a quilt, revealing the corpse of Mr. Himmel, with the top of his head torn away. That brought fresh cries of anguish from the widow, and two women rushed to her aid, drawing her inside the station. Even after the door closed, we heard the sorrowful wails in her foreign gibberish, as she had forgotten how to speak the few words of English she knows.
Those near the wagon turned as one to Luke for explanation, and even in my concern, I could not help but note with pride that the women seemed to regard him as a hero. Luke said the Indians had made a loop to the east as though to throw us off, then turned back and came upon the Himmel farm. Mr. Himmel was without, but he made it safely into the house, where he shoved his wife into a hole in the soddy floor, covering it with a rug. Then that brave husband protected his loved one by facing the savages alone until, at last, he was overcome and most horribly mutilated.
His poor wife could only listen, not knowing the outcome, until all was quiet, and she emerged from her hiding place, to discover her husband mortally wounded and scalped. Luke arrived before the man died, and he told me in private that he hoped never again to hear such pitiful cries, which were even worse than those of the wounded Rebel on the trail. As the Indians had not found the Himmel horses, which were grazing some distance away, Luke hitched them to a wagon and lifted the wounded man into it, but he died before they had gone more than a few rods.
My husband was badly shaken by his experience, because when we were at last alone, he asked me, “What have I brought you to?”
I put my arms around him, which Luke did not resist, and replied, “You did not promise me an easy life when you asked me to be your wife, Luke Spenser. I can bear anything if I am at your side.”
A corpse in our midst made everyone uneasy. The men opened another jug, whilst the women and children returned to the main room of the station, staying as far as they could from the remains of Mr. Himmel. I joined Jessie, who was preparing the body, and helped her as best I could, and together, we made a shroud of an old blanket. Jessie said it was not right to keep the body in that room, where it would cause the children nightmares and turn putrid in the heat of the cookstove. Nor could we leave it outside to attract wolves. She proposed moving the remains into the bedroom with Emmie Lou. “It won’t bother her. I gave her enough whiskey so’s she’ll sleep like sixty,” said Jessie.
I sat up all night with the corpse, but I was so tired that I dozed off in my chair and did not waken until I heard Emmie Lou stir. Then I took her babe to her to nurse, and myself fed Emmie Lou a cup of the nourishing squirrel broth that Jessie had put aside. Until morning when the men came to remove the body, Emmie Lou did not know who shared her sickroom.
“There was no place else to put him,” I explained. “You were never alone with him.”
“No matter,” Emmie Lou said. “Birth and death in the same room. Now who’s the lucky one?” She laughed at that, but not entirely in mirth, I believe. She is very tired and not in her right mind. I do not envy her. She will be going home to a dugout, a hole scooped out of a hillside that is more suitable for badgers than a mother with three little ones under the age of two. It is entirely too much and will get worse, as I presume Mr. Amidon will want her to try again so’s he can have a son. I count myself fortunate that Luke will not misuse me in that manner.
In the morning, the soldiers arrived, and a “buffalo soldier,” as the Negro enlisted man is called, told us the renegades had run off to Kansas and would bother us no more. Being tired of the hurly-burly in the station, we hastily buried Mr. Himmel in the little Mingo graveyard. He is the first Christian to be laid to rest there, says Missus, the other occupants being gamblers, blackguards, and highwaymen.
We did not talk of it on the way, but I know Luke, as well as Self, wondered what sight would greet us when we reached our home. I admit my foolish but heartfelt fear was that the Red Men had smashed my Delft plate and taken my journal, though as they can barely speak our language, surely they cannot read it. We found no sign of the savages, however, for which I thank God.
That very afternoon, Luke took out the sod plow and began cutting strips for our little house. The plow tearing through the grasses filled the air with a sound not unlike that of ripping yard goods. On our ride home, I had insisted he start the work immediately, for the portal is no protection against the savages. Luke gave me no trouble on that score. I helped him lay the strips, staggered like bricks and sod side down so that the prickly grass grips the dirt on the layer of prairie grass beneath.
Within three days, our house was finished. It has a window frame of lumber (which awaits its glass), for when Luke sets his mind to a thing, he does it proper. We will make do with the dirt floor until there is time (and money) for boards. Packed hard and swept each morning, a dirt floor is every bit as nice as a carpet. And it won’t wear out! I am glad that Husband has already fashioned us a bedstead, for I do not relish making up my bed with rake.
I asked Luke what would become of Mrs. Himmel. The poor woman is a foreigner, with none of her own people in this country. Mr. Amidon had asked her to go home with them to help his wife with the babies, but the grieving widow refused, and so remained at the station, where Jessie said she could give a hand with the work there. I think Jessie is softhearted, and a good woman, despite her unsavory past.
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about Mrs. Himmel. There are plenty of old bachelors about. She’ll be married within the month,” replied Luke. I was shocked, and told him so, but Husband said gruffly, “This isn’t a land for weaklings. It’s root hog or die. If you can’t understand that, you shouldn’t have come.”
My eyes stung at the reproof, especially after his loving words of a few days before, but I said nothing, blaming Luke’s ill temper on his own emotions at the danger we had just passed through.
October 4, 1865. Prairie Home.
Luke was wrong about Mrs. Himmel. She did not marry an old bachelor as was expected. The Earley boys have just brought the news. A week after her husband’s death, Mrs. Himmel went into th
e stable in Mingo and hanged herself from the cross beam.
November 10, 1865. Prairie Home.
Luke has taken the horses to help Mr. Smith pull a stump, though why anybody would care about moving such an item, I cannot understand. Out here, the remains of a tree is a landmark to be ranked with the the United States Capitol. Mr. Smith asked to borrow our horses, as his are poor, and Luke said he would go along to help. He feared Mr. Smith had something more in mind than stump pulling, and Luke did not trust him not to overwork our animals. Since observing the Smiths at Mingo, I am not so fond of them. Borrow, borrow, borrow, and never repay—that is the Smiths. With so few neighbors, we dare not refuse, however, and we hold our tongues. Luke said I might go with him, but I did not care to spend a day gossiping with meddlesome Missus in her soddy with no window. She does not wash her teeth, and she smokes and spits the day long.
Helping each other is the way of the country, as none can afford to hire workers except, perhaps, the Amidons. Emmie Lou confided her people are well-off, and they had sent her funds to build a proper house, which was begun right after the latest babe was born. Both her mother and father said a dugout was not a proper house, though whether they would consider her new home to be “proper,” I do not know.
It is a soddy, but it has two stories, and Mr. Amidon ordered doors from Denver, made to his specifications. What is more, there are six glass windows, and one of them opens! O, we are becoming first-rate on this prairie. Included are a large parlor and kitchen with buttery on the first floor, four bedrooms up, wooden floors on both levels, windows on all sides, and muslin pinned to walls and kitchen ceiling to keep the dirt from falling into the soup. That makes quite a mansion for Colorado Territory! A sod house is as snug as brick, though I discovered one drawback. Last evening as we ate our supper, I looked up, to see a rattler making his way through our wall. Luke struck it with a griddle, and Mr. Snake was no more.
Before the Amidons moved into their sod castle, they held a roof raising, and all were present. Luke and others brought tools, and the roof was done in short order. Miss Figg, our lady homesteader, was longing to join them, I think, but she stayed on the ground with the women and helped set out dinner. The repast was presided over by Missus, who tasted each and every dish before heaping her plate. Along with a vegetable stew, I brought my chess pie, which all pronounced tasty, especially Mrs. Garfield, for it is a Southern recipe.
Emmie Lou says Sallie Garfield came from a family in Georgia that owned Negroes to do all their work, and Mrs. Garfield even had a darky to fan her when she got hot. She has no one to help her now, however, and must be a trial to Mr. Garfield. She does a pretty job with fancywork, and indeed, she is rarely without her tatting, but she cannot do plain sewing, nor does she know anything of keeping a house or working a farm. Emmie Lou reports Mrs. Garfield could not cook anything but mush with milk before she left Georgia, and I say she cannot cook now. She made a mess of a pan of fried sage hen, burning it badly, though I told her that Luke preferred it well cooked, as he didn’t like a chicken that was too raw. I was sorry for the falsehood, because Mrs. Garfield pestered Luke throughout the meal to take another piece, and nothing would do but that he must oblige her. She is a terrible flirt, but I do not think he will be tempted. After all, I won Luke from Persia Chalmers, the worst trifler I ever saw, so I need not fear the Rebel girl.
I had hoped for a chance to know Mrs. Osterwald, as she seems in need of friends. The poor woman fell again, this time against a table, and her eye is blackened. At least, that is what she said, but I studied her closer, and I think it is something else. I believe she has fits. I would like to ask Emmie Lou but do not want to start the gossip. Mrs. Osterwald is too timid for society, and she keeps close to son and husband, so we had little chance for a chat. I mean for Luke to take me to call on them, because I think she would enjoy a visit if she does not have to put herself out too much. Her contribution to the meal was little meat pies, which she called pasties, and they were much commented upon.
As it is a pleasant day despite a hard frost last night, I sit outside, where I can look out across the prairie, which dons a golden cloak in fall, not at all like the brilliant red mantle of maples at home. I am wrapped up snug in my paisley shawl, with my little confidante in hand. Instead of writing the past hour, I have been reading this book. The events of these months have changed me from a silly girl into a woman, and one who is able to handle the trials Providence chooses to give her, I think. Pray God, it shall always be so. If Luke is not aware of my change for the better, well, I am. And I am just a little proud of myself.
I am aware in rereading my journal that I write too much. Luke would think so, too. One evening whilst talking of enjoyable pursuits, I said many thought a diary to be a pleasant pastime, as well as an efficient way to remember events of note. Luke said if one had to write down such happenings, they weren’t worth remembering, and that diary keeping, like writing poetry, used up time that might be put to better use. So now I know I was right in keeping this little book from him. I don’t agree with Husband, of course. I think a journal causes one to reexamine the events of one’s life and find ways to improve oneself. Still, I am sure I spend entirely too many hours with my pen, and I vow to be more judicious in the use of my time. That means I shall write less often.
First, however, I must put down the events since my last entry.
We have got us in a poor crop. I never worked as hard as I did helping Luke in the fields. Luke believes a woman should not unsex herself by doing a man’s work, but he could not finish the harvest without my help, and as I have a good arm with a sickle, I told him there was nothing wrong with a woman performing honest labor. Whilst I aided him in “bringing in the sheaves,” Luke did not unsex himself to help in my domain, but what man does? I was as weary as I have ever been.
The wheat crop was not good, the corn even worse. Luke was told ’twas folly to plant corn in this country, but he does as he pleases. So he put in a field of it, thinking he knew more than the naysayers. For a time, he appeared to be right. One morning, he called me to come for a stroll to see how tall and green and fine our corn was. In the forenoon, a hot wind came, and by nightfall, all that was left was a field of withered stalks.
I said he had no cause to reproach himself, because a man must take risks if he wishes to progress, but Luke refused to be comforted, and for several days he acted almost as if the charred crop was my fault. When things do not work out for Luke, he wishes to place blame, and as I am convenient, I come in for more than my share. I do not think that is right—after all, I scarcely control the wind—but it seems to be the role of the wife. I have learned to ignore his strange moods, which cause Luke to stand off by himself, staring at nothing. If I ask the reason, he replies in anger, whose cause I do not understand. I wish I knew more about men.
Well, despite my promise to write less, I have filled up several pages. Now, surely, I must put you away, little friend, and hope you understand if I do not see you soon again. My bread has raised well above the pan and now calls to me.
December 31, 1865. Prairie Home.
Now that the winter storms keep Luke inside our snug home, I have little privacy in which to write. Just now, I am alone, however, the only sound, the scratch, scratch of my pen as it scribbles on the paper. I never saw such snow. At first, I thought ’twas cozy, as the flakes looked as if someone were shaking a feather tick. But I quickly tired of the howling winds and swirling snow outside my window, and I do not look forward to many months of white ahead.
Luke has tied a rope twixt house and barn so he will not become lost in a blizzard. When he feeds the animals in bad weather, I place a light in the window as beacon, in case he should let go the rope and lose his way. Although Luke complained at the cost of the pane, I am glad we spent the money, and Luke is, too, for he has remarked at how cheery the light seems, shining through the snowflakes. He is in the barn, caring for the animals now, so this entry will be short.
As the year ends, I count myself specially blessed. I have both Husband and Prairie Home, and in the summer, we will welcome a little stranger! I have known for several weeks but wanted to make sure of the blessed event, so I did not inform Luke until Christmas Day. He is much pleased!
We had no tree for Christmas, as we did not care to chop down one of our precious two, but I piled together several Russian thistle, which the Earley boys, who shared our Christmas feast, call “tumbleweeds.” Decorated with ribbons and scraps of yard goods, the result was said by all to be far more dazzling than the standard item. Our brilliant company dubbed it a “Christmas bush” and declared that, henceforth, it would be part of our traditional festivities. I placed the presents from home around it, including the pen wiper Carrie made for Luke and the slipper tops of plush that she embroidered in Hen’s Foot for me. I wrote her that they are too elegant for a dirt floor and that I shall save them for my confinement.
Dinner was served on our humble table, which is made of four posts driven into the earthen floor, with a very large provision box turned upside down and set upon them. It is a sturdy piece of furniture indeed. Luke and I sat on bed and washtub, giving our only two chairs to our guests. I had prepared a hearty holiday meal of sage hen, but as I had not had the fixin’s for a plum pudding, we finished off with a cake made from the last of the precious chocolate brought from Iowa. I mourned to see the end of it, as I have a passion for chocolate, favoring it above all things. Just when we thought we could not eat another morsel, the Earleys presented us with a jar of pickled walnuts, which we agreed must be sampled instantly.
Our gift to the boys, as we call them, was a box of divinity, made with black walnuts I gathered in the spring when we passed through Missouri. I gave Luke a tie that I had made from a silk waist of mine, which looked specially nice when he put it on with the embroidered vest I had made as his wedding present. Luke gave me a fine stirring stick, fashioned with his own hands from a pole that had been part of the head frame of our Conestoga wagon. Made of the best hickory, the stick has one end flattened just enough to allow me to beat the cake batter properly. It is as well-designed a stirrer as I have ever seen.
The Diary of Mattie Spenser Page 7
